The 72nd Hunger Games - Destructive Competition
by Tigga Please
Summary: Brodrin Locke appears to find himself as the dominant force at this year's Hunger Games. Coming from the Academy in District 2 Brodrin is a lethal career that has a bit more to him than first glances would hint.
1. Chapter 1 - A Gift To Behold

**Chapter 1**

"Hey Brodrin you ready for today? I know you are gonna win this no problem."

I let out a cocky chuckle. Lucan barely comes up to my chest, as he stands excitedly in front of me, completely oblivious that he's successfully blocked the doorway into the classroom.

"Of course I'm ready Lucan. Now can you please let me in?" I ask as I look back to find four impatient faces imbedded in the busy hallway.

Lucan threads his fingers through his brown-blonde hair in embarrassment as he lets out a giggle that matches his stature. "Yeah of course. I'm really sorry I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it. No one cares today. Everyone is way too busy freaking out about the Emulate. I heard Griff broke down in Class One," I say as I take my seat next to Lucan in the back row.

"Seriously? I honestly wouldn't have guessed that one. Even I was impressed with his use of the long daggers in the last session."

Lucan sat at every session to watch us train. He never missed a day. One time he had a dangerously high fever. His mother and father had been told to not get their hopes up. His chances of survival were slim. The enthusiastic little shit actually snuck out of his house and watched a whole session from behind two of the weapon racks. I didn't notice him until the end so I knew there wasn't much use in yelling at him anymore.

"Yeah, I think he would have been an interesting opponent. But his mental game was always an issue." I say absent-mindedly as I look out the window that always finds itself filled with the portrait of the Nut right in the center.

There is almost always something moving around the mountain. Most of the time it's a hovercraft, but you never see a bird anywhere close to it. Can't say I blame them. Who wants to share the skies with those graceless hunks of metal anyway? Besides, I've seen what happens to the birds that get too close to them.

Lucan begins to speak again, but then the guide enters the room. Guide Shevan is extremely thin, even more so than Lucan. His bony face holds an everlasting look as though he feels bored constantly, no matter the situation.

All the guides wear the same thin uniform that awkwardly stops just past the elbows. With the only difference being the color. While Guide Shevan wears white, we all rock a soft blue uniform.

"Now I understand today will be hard for you to concentrate as I know most of you will be competing today in the Emulate. I wish you all a safe contest, but we mustn't forget our alternative purpose here at the Academy. So let's begin," he says with a monotone voice.

All of us in this room are careers. The classes are sectioned off so that all the careers reside in rooms together, while all the other students get placed in the rooms left over. We get the best equipment and guides. Perks for paying extra for your kid to get in the program. Since the actual training is technically illegal, the academy just lazily labels it as an afterschool activity for self-defense that parents can pay extra for, but since the program produces so many of the peacekeepers the Capitol seems like it would get angry if we did shut it down.

"Now we'll start right where we left off with the fourth tool that revolutionized the stone mining process…"

I can barely focus on that one sentence before I block out Shevan's voice and just begin staring at random things in the room. Paloma keeps tapping her left leg so fast that it looks like an engine powers it. Aniya keeps glancing back nervously at me. Brekk just twirls something I can't see in between his fingers. He always tries to convince me that it helps his hand-eye coordination.

Most have worked all their young lives to get here. The only one who won't participate is Lucan. He trained harder than any kid I've ever seen, but heart doesn't always make up for natural talent. Lucan has weaker bones and little muscle. He can't wield any heavy weapons and the light ones don't work much better for him.

Another career injured him a few years ago. It was a hand-to-hand sparring match with this tall boy with the smarts of a tree. I forget his name. Anyway, the kid dislocated Lucan's arm since he refused to tap out. But Lucan just got up after and tried to go back at him. The dumb kid didn't know fear; I'll give him that. A few weeks later he sustained a concussion from a girl who thought Lucan was a creep for asking her to eat with him once. She said if he beat her in a practice match, she would do it.

I guess accidents happen. The doctors said if Lucan sustained another injury it could end with irreversible injuries or even death. Either way Lucan obviously wasn't winning the Emulate so his parents pulled him out of training. As some second prize gift they continued to pay to allow him to stay in the classes and observe the training. He came to the Academy every day for weeks with eyes red from crying. The chance to stay in the program seemed to help a bit though.

"Brodrin, I made this for you." Lucan whispers as he hands me something with expert discretion.

I open my hand once it's concealed from Shevan. My eyes widen as the object emits a soft beautiful glow that teases my eyes with a bright green light that subtly turns into an even lighter blue one and then goes back again. I hold a bracelet unlike any other I've ever seen in my life. The light comes from an intricate pattern that flows like waves all the way around it. The metal of the bracelet itself appears to look like some unique form of silver, but I can tell that the metal holds much more value than mundane silver.

Lucan smiles at my reaction. "It's powered by the sun so it won't ever stop glowing. All you have to do to make it stop is touch it here," he whispers as he points to one of the very distinct patterns, which he then runs his fingers along it, as if tracing it. The light fades instantly.

"Lucan how the hell did you get this?" I ask trying to keep my voice to a low volume. Obviously this gift cost a lot of money. Even for the richer families in District 2, few have the money to just buy something like this for themselves. Never mind giving it to a guy who doesn't even call you an actual friend. This kind of luxury usually stays reserved for the capitol, maybe a few elite families in District 1, since this treasure probably came from there.

Lucan's face gets a little blanker, as if he wants to control what emotions I see. "I had an older brother. He served as a peacekeeper in District 10. That bracelet belonged to him. He gave it to me the day before he left for 10," he mumbles.

His past tense of 'have' tells me all I need to know. I hate asking this question but I know I have to. "Have you told anyone that you are giving this to me?" I ask, staring him straight in his dark blue eyes.

He returns my look with a reserved smile, "I haven't told a soul."

"It's just that if you tell someone later—"

"No one will ever know I gave it to you Brodrin, I promise," he says with the same look on his face.

I hate having to ask him. He deserves someone who can afford to treat him better than I can. I don't say another word though. I just slip on the bracelet and lean back on my chair. Lucan turns into a mass of joy. He looks like he's just been told that he'll get to participate in the Hunger Games. No more words need be whispered.

"Brodrin Locke. Would you be so kind as to actually initiate your desk," Shevan hissed from the front of the room.

"Thank you Guide Shevan. I don't know what I would do without your guidance! Such an imperative task proves tough for me to complete without the proper orders," I say rather loudly. The class erupts in unanimous laughter as I follow my sarcasm with an obnoxious gesture of pounding my fist, like a caveman, on the transparent desk to try and turn it on.

Shevan opens his mouth but then quickly closes it back up as if his thoughts were air that needed to be sucked back in. I then gracefully flick my finger in the upper right hand corner of the desk. The once glass-like panel now finds itself covered in a menu selection with several topics and categories to choose from. With a few more taps of my finger I'm on the correct chapter with a picture on the left and text on the right decorating my desk.

Shevan should have yelled at me when I said what I did, if not for my rudeness then at least for that type of humor. For some reason the students at the academy only laugh at terrible jokes like that. I tried to make a real joke once. My true sense of humor didn't really take well with the rest of my classmates. I honestly don't view many of them as exceptionally bright.

Still, Shevan's no idiot. He understands the politics. Victors in District 2 instantly become some of the most powerful people in the district. It's not just the wealth that automatically comes along with winning. It's the prestige. A victor can get almost anything he or she wants, including revenge on someone who pissed them off before the Games. Guides are not exempt from this unspoken rule.

Suddenly the insignia of the Capitol, with a stylized 2 right in the center, flashes across the wall behind Shevan. The same electronic glass that serves as our desks covers the entire wall behind our guide. That's our cue. Everyone in the room leaps to their feet with impressive reaction time. I remain in my seat. The others stiffly stand facing forward making less noise than a stone.

"You may all depart. Good luck to all of you," Shevan says with actually a bit of sincerity in his voice. He probably meant good luck to all except Brodrin. The man never really liked me, understandably so. I'm the last one to leave the room as I find Lucan waiting for me outside the doorway. I nod to him discreetly and then make my way towards the preparation room. I have a reaping token to win.


	2. Chapter 2 - A Mouse in the Snake Pit

**Chapter 2**

I try to keep my walk down the busy hallway at a brisk pace, but my excitement makes it difficult. The first day of the Emulate couldn't have gotten here any slower. Students sprint down the hallways. The boys don't mind pushing each other to get a good seat; while the girls giggle as they see their crushes show their physical dominance over those that prove slower or weaker.

Large screens cover most of the walls above the lockers. Usually they have Academy announcements on the screens or pathetic attempts at inspirational quotes on how to better the district and the Capitol. But today neither one plagues my eyes. Instead, the screens all simultaneously show one of two images. The right wall uses its screens to showcase the highlights of the one of the greats, Braven Akrrard. The left side does so in the same fashion, except that the scenes consist of the heroic moments of Selvan Lesput.

Braven's short but quite good-looking. At first glance he looks too small to do any real harm to anyone over the age of 10. However, he was unbelievably quick. Before him, no one really thought of daggers as anything other than last resorts. A sword was always better until he showed the districts what potential such weapons had. The screen shows slow motion clips of his signature move. A lethal dodge of a stronger opponent's slower strike that resulted in a dagger plunged into the back of the neck. Seamless, I've tried to replicate the move with my swords, but I still don't feel that I've done him justice.

Selvan came a few years after Braven with tactics that completely opposed his predecessor's. With his tall, lanky stature he used a long sword with a slight curve on it, which proved advantageous for his heavy attacking style. My eyes rest on one of his screens just as it shows him dealing the killing blow to the two careers from District 1 who tried to defeat him together. He cuts them both down with one slash. With a single move he ends the games, and makes history. I plan to do something similar.

Still, while I admire their talents in combat I'm not ignorant of their faults. Braven lacks stamina, and Selvan has vision that's as narrow as a straw. Not to mention the fact that both victors don't break the tradition of having a prick win the Games. No decent person ever does. I guess they got what was coming to them when they both died in the Capitol. Braven didn't fully recover from his wounds. Selvan dove off a balcony. I guess alcohol can't make people fly. Rumors can be so dangerous.

Everyone in the district sees the two of them as the best to ever come through the Academy and win the Games. The only thing people don't agree on is which one would defeat the other. I've heard great arguments from both sides, but personally I could care less. I intend to make everyone forget about them this year. I will show them a Hunger Games they won't soon forget.

I quicken my pace as the doors to the Training Room come into view. All the students call it the Acorn. It's a nickname that's become a sort of tradition for nearly a decade. The district has the Nut as its monument of fame. The Academy has the Acorn. Several kids have broken into tears trying to convince everyone that their older brother or sister deserves the credit of coming up with the nickname. I don't think it's anything to brag about.

"Good luck Brodrin. Promise to get the first kill for me?" says Lesha as she bats her eyes so fast that I wouldn't be all that surprised if her eyelashes started on fire. I'm guessing she doesn't know that I've already been with one of her best friends. Weird, usually that stuff gets around pretty efficiently.

"Come on Lesha, are you trying to make me nervous?" I say with smile, that I'll admit probably looks more like a smolder, as I walk by. Lesha quickly looks to her friends and begins giggling.

Collarchasers all act the same. We call the students, girls or guys that aren't careers, that when they flirt with us. They receive the title if they decide to go further than flirting as well. The reason being, the only distinction between a career and all other students at the Academy rests on the collar of our uniforms. They have white ones, while we have black. Now I don't know who came up with that nickname either, although I would understand why someone would be proud of that one.

The students bunch up as they walk through the doors to the Acorn. They all have to walk as though a short string restricts their ankles from separating anymore than a few inches. I'm not dealing with this.

"Everyone!" I yell so loud that the boy directly in front of me flinches like a shy cat.

The crowd stops and turns to look at the owner of the shout. I then merely give a look as though it's obvious what I want, and then I gesture with my hands for them to make a path. No one feels like attempting to defy my wish, which is good it saves me a bit of time.

Once I get through and make it into the Acorn, I find myself smiling as hundreds of eyes set their gaze directly on me. The students stand in balconies that look more like hollow blocks protruding from the walls. In two of the corners of the massive room, stairs serve as the way to get to the upper level balconies. The older kids get the higher ones and the youngsters get the lower. The youngest of the young have to stand on the ground floor. They all have faces filled with jealousy and admiration for the ones who get to watch from above. It's silly though; standing in the dull balconies doesn't really change the viewing experience.

I take another look at the staring crowd chattering to each other, and then I make sure to make my walk to the Prep Room slow and confident. I may have overdone it, but the students seem to love it. The entrance to the Prep Room is finely decorated with an array of weapons that form a 2 that covers both doors.

Lucan painted it. From far away the doors just look like they have a silver 2 painted on them. However, once up close you get to see the real masterpiece. Lucan painted every weapon no large than his finger. Yet, each one remains unique and extremely detailed. From maces to bows the kid drew it all. He got a few compliments from some of the other careers, but they said it more like a side comment. Lucan deserved a holiday for the craftsmanship he displayed. Careers only care about fighting. Sometimes our uncultured tendencies make me want to throw up.

"Listen man, we can team up and make our odds way better or we can get our asses kicked by Brodrin, we both know neither of us can beat him on our own so let's just—"

"Great idea Brekk. If the two of you team up it would improve your odds drastically. I would say your odds would go from a 3% all the way up to 7%. It's a bold statement I know, but I really think you guys have it in you," I say as I put my arm around Brekk's shoulder, and give his little companion a polite smile.

The two give each other a meaningful look and then join the rest of the male careers. Most have gotten dressed and now sit on one of the many long benches that face the display screen at the end of the room. Usually we use it for our combat lessons.

The Prep Room has a lot to offer. Wide lockers line the entire right and left side of the room. At the other end is the shower room and right next to it, the weapons locker. The weapons locker imbeds itself deep into the wall. It's not really a locker like the rest of them, but more of a big closet with a really thick metal door that requires a key card to access it. Trying to break in there is nearly impossible, but that doesn't really matter because it's just an easy way of getting expelled.

I take a seat on the backbench because then I can use the wall as a crappy pillow for my head as I lean backwards. Scruffy then bursts into the Prep Room. He's got this huge smile on his face, as he power walks up to the display screen so as to face all 92 of us. We call him Scruffy because his hair always looks so disheveled like he just woke up. No one knows if he likes the style or he just thinks that well-kept hair leads to disease. My guess is that it's just his way of rebelling a little because he will make a joke about my light brown hair, that's cropped up in the front, when no one else is around.

"Guys I'm going to be honest I may have had to change my pants once or twice this morning. I'm sorry but I'm that excited," says Scruffy with a serious look that doesn't take long to switch back into a genuine grin.

All the guys just laugh. Only Scruffy could think of a way to make us all laugh on the day when half the careers in the room are one scare away from an anxiety attack.

"Before we get into it I just want to say it's been an honor instructing all of you. No matter what happens in that Acorn please believe me that the Games aren't the only path to becoming the victor," Scruffy says with a look I've never seen on him before. His face has a touch of wisdom to it that's just beyond his years, the guy's only in his mid-twenties.

Silence covers the entire room like a thick fog. For a moment it's universally understood that movement finds itself forbidden. The careers look at him a little confused at first, then the determination finds its way back to the surface.

"Now there will be 21 of you that will not have to participate in the preliminary matches. The 21 who have already advanced to the final match are determined by my rankings. The list is here."

His math is off. Someone will figure it out eventually.

Since the Emulate tries to replicate the Hunger Games, only 24 may participate in any one session. So with 92 careers there has to be four matches of 24. The first three will have full rosters no problem. But that leaves 20 left over that can't make a full match. So the three winners of the three preliminary matches will participate in the final championship, I guess you would call it.

Scruffy turns around and taps the screen behind him. 21 names rest vertically on the screen with a number next to each. I actually completely agree with the Scruffster's rankings, and I'm not just saying that because I'm on top. The careers in 2nd and 3rd place really do have some skill, especially in group-fights.

The Emulate follow the formula of the Hunger Games to a T. The only difference being that the Emulate only last about 10 minutes if that. This is because the arena isn't much larger than 120 square yards. For years we careers have been not only training for when we enter combat, but we also learn how to survive the elements. So the Emulate doesn't really try to test us on long-term survivability. Plenty of tributes die off without actually seeing any action, but a career's biggest threat is the first 15 minutes of the Games. Plenty of careers that don't win the Games often get killed at the Cornucopia. When 23 other kids surround you it's easy to get caught off guard. Last year both tributes from our district died in less than 3 minutes. A girl from District 12 stabbed the male tribute in the back, while A District 1 career held the girl down while his district companion slit her throat.

The career that thrives in chaos has the best chance of winning. At least that's the way the Academy sees it. I'm just glad the Emulate doesn't take weeks like the Games do. I really don't have the patience for that.

"So guys you may have also noticed that there is one extra slot on this list," Scruffy shouts over the grumbles of the careers. Unsurprisingly, the cheers are the minority in the room. "This is because we have one participant in the Games who has not trained as a career."

Wow that's weird. I've never heard of anyone trying that before. I feel bad for that mouse. Snake pits aren't exactly cozy.

"Oh hey Scruffles by the way," I say keeping myself rested on the wall. Everyone whips around to look back at me. "I want to join the preliminary match. Give someone else the buy."


	3. Chapter 3 - The Emulate

**Chapter 3**

Not one eye in the room decides to tear from me for a fraction of a moment. Some look excited for such a plot twist. Others just look pissed. Their faces definitely make my decision worth it. The murmurs and whispers don't last long because Scruffy steals the spotlight from me by making a move toward the screen.

He doesn't even give me the satisfaction of extending a look of astonishment, or even intrigue. He simply makes a few empty taps and swipes on the screen behind him that result in the disappearance of my name. The career placed in second snatches up the first place ranking on the screen.

"Rolden, your next on the rankings. Congratulations you have made it to the final Emulate," Scruffy says with very little enthusiasm.

It must be a bittersweet moment for Rolden. He gets what he wanted, but not the way he wanted it. No one said it all works out perfectly.

Scruffy orders the rest of us to get dressed before he exits the room with a walk that exudes disappointment. I can't say I understand why. I'll definitely have to investigate later, but for now I need to focus because me and 23 other careers are about to start the Emulate. I wish I'd have gotten into the second preliminary match for the guys rather than the first. The less amount of time in between fights the better.

All 24 of us quickly line up at the door in single file. I take the tail of the line. I don't like showing people my back, especially trained fighters who see me as the biggest threat to their own dreams.

The rest of the careers stand to the side waiting for us to exit first. They analyze us like an assembly line inspecting each item for quality. Carefully picking whom you observe in the Emulate turns out to be half the battle. The best of us have a few hidden moves that we've kept in our back pockets for months or maybe even years. The Emulate is where we reveal them, so it's best to pay attention to whom you may end up fighting.

The doors finally open and the line moves with slow smoothness out of the locker. The cheers and shouts nearly give me a headache as my ears adjust to the drastic elevation in noise. Students hop up and down so much that I would understand if the balcony gave way from the beating it's taking. In their own exclusive seat-included balconies the guides, in contrast, look to be in a stage more extreme than paralysis. They stare with very little emotion, and when they throw a quick comment to the adjacent guide their mouths move as if they were made of granite.

My eyes then lock onto the Cornucopia. This year's structure bests all others I've seen in previous years at the Academy. The cylinder-like construction stands two stories high with two narrow staircases on opposite ends that lead to the second level. The walls of the second floor are glass all the way around revealing an array of weapons in the room. The architect made the ground level to have a similar level of openness, as the lower room has three very large gaps in the wall, equally spaced around the structure, in which to enter. 4 of us can comfortably fit through any of the entrances at once. Still, the ground floor refuses to be outdone by the top floor as it too contains an impressive armory.

For this first round the climate choice is an interesting one. Artificial snow covers the ground under and around the Cornucopia. The white blanket creates a perfect square around the dark grey structure. The boundaries only extend at most about 25 yards away from the Cornucopia. This square is the arena, and no one will leave it until we have a victor.

Snow isn't my first choice though. It makes foot work all the more pivotal. One slip of your foot and it's over. That's not even the most annoying part. The drastic shift to the low temperature isn't exactly pleasant. Dammit, was it too much to just get a nice beach with some hot sand to rest my feet under?

The small pedestals on which we stand have our names digitally inscribed on the tops. I find mine rather quickly. I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm facing one of the three entrances of the Cornucopia, those that don't simply face the wall adjacent to the entrance. Such positions only require about 3 or 4 extra steps, but that can make a difference unfortunately. It's still way better than the Cornucopias with one big entrance to bottleneck everyone through.

The cheers increase with every participant that steps up to his place. There's no need for instructions or introductions, we all know what to do. I hear the hum of the invisible barrier that creates a transparent box around us. The boundary separates the snowy wasteland from the normal gently padded floors with perfect precision. Any weapons that try to pierce the barrier won't threaten the audience.

Everyone's in place and before any of us have a chance to really take in our surroundings the countdown begins. On three sides of the Cornucopia just above each entrance the number twelve appears, but it quickly begins to count down. The numbers look different this year; the stylistic font isn't just something they whipped up at the last minute. The numbers receive elegant pointed ends, and each number has internal details added so that every number looks as though it contains its own unique ecosystem, from the ocean to the jungle. Lucan must have been involved. 8 seconds left.

The others get in their stances. The initial sprint to the cache can't be overstated. 5 seconds left.

I spot Lucan in one of the balconies directly in front of me. He looks down at me with that classic smile that contains nothing but good will and kindness. Such a shame there are so many better people out there who deserve a friend like Lucan. But instead, the kid sees something in me that just isn't there. 1 second left.

There isn't a bell that rings or a low siren that echoes through the massive room. There's just quiet. Everyone in the balconies, who couldn't stop themselves from screaming during the countdown, now falls as silent as night.

We all run. My movement consists of reserved and calculated strides. I know how many steps I must take to get there. I know how slow my heart is beating. I know exactly where all 23 of the other careers are, and where they plan to go.

Some run with outstretched arms from the moment their feet free themselves from the pedestals. Others stumble from trying to rocket themselves into the Cornucopia faster than their legs can keep up with. Two of the careers lay only a few feet from where they originally stood, still convulsing from the heavy electrical shock that the pedestals had dished out. They shouldn't have tried to anticipate the countdown, but rather reacted to it. The pedestals have some impressive tech in them so you don't even have milliseconds worth of leeway.

I get to our universally desired destination first with just under a two second window before the next career makes it in here. The roof of the structure looks a bit higher than I'd expect. The only weapons I'll ever use in an arena hang to my left on the wall. The two short swords stand proudly beside each other with their edges pointing to the ground. I grab them and dart out of the Cornucopia just as three careers come racing in before the rest. An unlucky one tries to change his course as I jet past him, but my right blade catches his leg bringing him to the cold ground. He isn't finished yet, but with one leg and no weapon he's done.

When I make it far out enough out of the mayhem I turn around to get a full picture, making myself comfortable and taking a seat on the thin snow. The laughter and roar of the crowd tells me my antics will definitely be talked about for a while. The cold ground isn't exactly comfortable, but I do my best as I lounge with one knee propped up for my arm to rest on.

Plenty of the careers are already writhing on the floor. Some tackle each other and don't even go for the weapons once they realize that all the ones in reach have been taken. The careers with weapons easily prevail however. Their blows result in yelps of pain from the mouth and bright sparks from the body. Each weapon, including mine, has their edges lined with a material that feels slightly softer than rubber but, ironically, has the ability to conduct electricity rather well. The material is painted the same color as the metal of the weapons. Sometimes it's difficult to tell whether a weapon has a shock layer on it or not.

A lot of the guys in there withstand more than one blow before they crumple to the floor, overwhelmed from the amount of electricity surging through their bodies.

Most of the weapon boxes have found themselves knocked over by now. This round won't take long to finish. Only eight remain, as one of them finally notices me sitting comfortably outside watching the carnage within the Cornucopia. He doesn't think twice before charging me, sword in hand. I gracefully get up with my swords still at my side. Finally it's my turn.

The courageous career raises his sword above his head, but before he can bring it down on me I leap forward and place a slash in his rib cage. He staggers backwards to catch his breath. I let him do so; he definitely needs all the help he can get.

For his second attack he grips the hilt with both hands and sends a flurry of slashes and stabs at me. I dodge all of them with ease not even using my blades to block his sloppy attacks. The blade in my left hand then catches him completely by surprise as it gets him on the top of his shoulder. This time he gives in to the wills of gravity.

I then return to my original position of attempted comfort, sitting on the fake snow. I probably should have looked at the other careers before I did so because when I do I'm quite surprised at what I see.

I haven't lost track of where the rest of my opponents stand, but I didn't realize that they'd all stopped fighting each other completely. Some of them remain rather close to one another, but they've turned into furious statues. They are all nearly out of breath as their sweat drenches their hair, while I look almost bored at how this is playing out. Shit! This isn't good. This really isn't good!

No words need be spoken between the seven that remain. They all prowl towards me slowly in silence. My careless façade washes away instantly as I leap backwards onto my feet. I hold both of my weapons up at the gang of spoiled, trained killers, but my swords might as well be toys to them. They're confident now, as they continue to close in on me. Several of them start to move in on my flanks in an attempt to surround me completely.

"How are my odds looking now Locke?" says Brekk as he stands in the center of the pack with a look of pure elation.

My opponents have now made a loose semicircle in front of me, but the careers on my left and right continue to take steps in an attempt to encircle me completely.

I stop backing up slowly, and I lower my weapons down to my sides. I say with a smirk, "Well Brekk let me just say that—."

I cut quickly to my left like a viper, as I strike at the career trying to get a look at my back. My bluff at starting a dialogue works. The guy is nowhere near prepared for me to start the fight. I deliver a strong jab to his stomach that forces him to hunch over, then I don't waste any time bringing my other sword down on his exposed back; 6 more to go.

I begin backing up again rather quickly so as to keep all of them in front of me. They aren't happy with my trick, and they all attack at once.

I've never had to take on more than 4 at once. Anymore than that and we all understand that you're simply done. However, that lack of training works both ways. As they all throw themselves at me with newfound confidence, attack after attack constantly gets in the way of another. They're completely out of rhythm. A characteristic I exploit well.

I make sure to keep moving either backwards or sideways to keep the others consistently bumping into one another. Brekk runs into one of his fellow attackers so much that he cuts him down himself out of frustration. He's in the back of group so none of them notice.

I'm able to finally get somewhere when two more trip rather badly over each other. I counter an attack coming from my right side, introducing my sword to his chest. One hit is all it takes; 4 more to go.

Then I simultaneously slash at the two who still haven't fully recovered their balance from their embarrassing collision. I get lucky as both fall without much noise; 2 to go.

I feel my fear rush out of my body like an evil spirit, leaving nothing but a sense of invincibility. Brekk and his lone companion now back up slowly. Brekk can't keep his long sword from trembling like a flagpole in the wind as he stares in bewilderment at me.

"You regret taking out your other pal now don't you Brekk?"

Quite confused, the other career looks at Brekk and then at me again. He doesn't waste any time putting distance between the two of us, but Brekk has his mind made up before his temporary ally does. It's an act mostly of desperation mixed with a sprinkle of resourcefulness. He thrusts his sword into the boy's sword arm. The wound makes him drop his weapon as Brekk then grabs him by the collar and slingshots him into me.

I sidestep to the right, leaving my leg outstretched for him to conveniently trip over. Brekk doesn't waste any time though. He slashes right at my face. I dodge forwards with a spin of unnecessary finesse allowing me to get behind him. The flat side of my blade then playfully finds his butt. The tap results in a small spark that makes him jump forwards.

The laughter and roar from the crowd stings him like a poison as he whips around with a menacing face filled to the brim with red.

He's talented I have to admit. His strikes are well timed and accurate. He attempts to strike with athletic kicks, even a resourceful elbow when our weapons lock for a second.

I let him attack for a good 20 seconds before I get bored. I then parry his sword thrust, and without letting my blade leave contact with his weapon I slide it down the metal and strike him hard in the chest.

He groans and struggles to get up but it's over. I turn around to see the one that Brekk used as a distraction limp up with no weapon in hand.

His eyes are red, and flooded with tears, while the ground decorates his face with fake snow and blood from when I tripped him earlier. His shirt has plenty of rips in it, and it's stretched out at the neckline, exposing his left shoulder.

"Please Brodrin, listen to me. I need to win this. You have to understand I have nothing else. This is it for me," he says with pleading eyes that now let the tears fall.

"Sorry kid."

I tighten my grip on the blades. Sometimes things don't end the way we like them to.


End file.
